


Signed, Sealed, Delivered

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, Other, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:27:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14193990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “We’re all here together,” says Masako. “I’ll drink to that.”





	Signed, Sealed, Delivered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> happy (much-belated) valentine's day my darling!
> 
>  
> 
> (this is the au where alex coaches the knicks and masako coaches the nets)

July 1

Tatsuya’s phone rings first, and Alex tries not to suck in her breath. She closes her eyes instead, tilting her head back and dropping her shoulders as Tatsuya heads off to the bedroom to take it. It doesn’t make her body less tense, or less tired from being stuck on the phone with her boss all last night arguing about Tatsuya’s extension. The front office wants to lowball him; they need him. Alex needs him. She can’t see him leaving, but she can’t see him taking less than what he’s worth, either, if only to prove a point. Maybe bias covers all of this like fog out of a fifteenth-story window, but even if it was possible to remove everything about not wanting to stretch the distance in this relationship further, she needs players she can trust. She can trust Tatsuya to play in this system well; she can trust him to lead on and off the court; she can trust him with the game on the line. It’s the kind of trust that only comes with knowing him as well as she does, but relationships take time, and staring down the barrel of starting fresh with someone she barely knows at the one next year is more than a little unpleasant, all other facets of their relationship disregarded.

Maybe this ringing is the signal; maybe for once the offseason is starting with a move from her GM that makes sense. It almost surely isn’t. She can’t hear Tatsuya’s voice, only a few jagged sounds from behind the closed door that signify he’s saying something. Too long for just a yes; it can’t be good.

Masako’s phone is as silent as Alex’s. She’s not as nervous, though; she’s got more in place now and more available, no one she’s in danger of losing like Tatsuya. (She fucking deserves it, though, what with the madness of the last two trade deadlines.) Even as stressed and wrapped up in herself as Alex is right now, she’d know if something big was up—but if nothing was up, Masako might be more nervous, wouldn’t she?

“You’ve got something planned,” says Alex, her eyes still shut.

“If I told you, that might be collusion,” says Masako. “And nothing’s official yet.”

Alex’s phone is warm in her hand; she peeks at the LED. Nothing. The bedroom door squeaks open. She can’t tell from Tatsuya’s footsteps what this means, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe if he was mad or weary it would bleed through. She looks up.

Masako’s phone rings. She squeezes Tatsuya’s hand as she walks past him on her way to the bedroom, and Alex pulls Tatsuya onto her lap. His hand winds around her waist, his thumb still against the small of her back, her skin bare where her tank top’s riding up.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I wouldn’t—no,” says Tatsuya.

“Want me to curse out Davis for you?”

“He’s your boss, too,” says Tatsuya. “But if you could…”

“Believe me, if I thought it would get him to pay you I would have done it already,” says Alex.

(If she could be the GM—something that’s been floated around her, chatter from the press stirring the pot like they always do here, something she always shuts down because she truly does not want to deal with that when she can be out on the floor working with players—right now, just for a day, to pay him clearly, she would in less than a heartbeat.) Alex’s phone vibrates; it’s just an email and she shoves her phone back in her pocket and kisses Tatsuya’s shoulder. He relaxes against her, just a little bit.

“I’ll call him again later.”

“Thanks,” says Tatsuya.

(He’ll wait, even if the Lakers give him a max deal he’d be a fool not to sign; he’s too sentimental in a way that Alex is, too, and it pulls at her insides like cactus needles in her thumb.) Tatsuya stretches, his shirt riding up on his stomach; he catches Alex watching and pinches her thigh. She’s a little bit surprised he’s in the mood to be this playful, but then again it’s probably a deflection. A distraction, for both of them.

The bedroom door opens with its signature squeak; Masako’s fiddling with one earring as she comes out. Her hair’s pulled back and she’s wearing that suit that Alex particularly likes, pinstriped with a rounded collar.

“Interview,” she says.

“With who?” says Alex.

Masako gives her a look, drawn out and exactly what Alex was going for (Masako knows it, too). She feels Tatsuya smile against her neck, and then shift to look at Masako. Alex traces the way she’s looking through the way Masako looks back, the flickering of her eyeline and the twitch of her mouth. “Tell your boss to get you to interview me next,” says Tatsuya.

Masako pauses at that, and Alex’s first thought is driving up the prices. Her second is, oh shit, and her third is a rambling line of that she must have, that she wouldn’t take Tatsuya re-signing with the Knicks as a foregone conclusion even if the Nets’ GM did. And she’s got no idea what to think about that.

“We’ll see,” Masako says.

She's gone before Alex has even begun to process her response, still stuck on Tatsuya’s request. He wouldn’t say anything like that as a joke, and he’s got no reason not to mean it. The Nets have a big chunk of cap room, a willingness to spend, and they’re in position to make a push for the playoffs if not a legitimate run if they add a few more pieces; that number goes way down if they add Tatsuya. He knows Masako and he knows her style of coaching, even if it’s been years since he’s played on one of her teams. He’d get his money and he’d get to stay here with them, stretching their relationship in a different way but not much further than it’s already stretched. Davis might give in the end, but Alex doesn’t blame Tatsuya for not wanting to wait around and see. If there’s a better offer on the table, then why should he? Alex could see him taking the court for Masako so easily, destroying the Knicks at the Garden dressed in black (he’s always thrived on that kind of revenge). Masako talking to him in a time-out, her face angled up, eyes blazing, pen tapping the clipboard.

(And Alex would be on the other side of the distance more often than not, alone on a king-size hotel bed Skyping or texting Tatsuya and Masako, watching their game on the television at home and falling asleep because the west coast seems so goddamn late from the east. She doesn’t begrudge the two of them their time together, nor does she think it’s fair or right that Masako’s the odd one out more often than not, and not her or Tatsuya, but on a lot of levels she’s not entirely enthusiastic.

But Tatsuya deserves to play for a team that values him at what he’s worth, period.

Neither of them has said anything since Masako left; Tatsuya rolls out of Alex’s lap. One arm remains around her waist; he kisses her neck and winds his fingers through hers. He doesn't’ have to say anything to get his point across, fill up the silence with words. They’re both thinking about the same thing, though most certainly in different ways.

SportsCenter is still low-activity when Masako texts their group chat. She says she’s coming home.

“Nothing,” says Alex.

“She’s just waiting for us to find out on TV,” says Tatsuya.

“Possible,” says Alex. “But she’d take longer if something happened.”

Tatsuya shrugs. “Maybe.”

Two commercial breaks later and the overly-botoxed anchorman raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth, and delivers the news: the Nets have agreed to terms with a swingman, James McGriff, on a three-year deal, medium-risk and high-reward, buzzwords about filling a need that on the surface they don’t even have, clutch defense, the fluidity of positions. It’s not nothing after all, and he’s the perfect player to complement Tatsuya, and damn it. This could be real.

 

July 2

Tatsuya breathes looser when he’s alone in the apartment. Maybe that’s the wrong thing to do where his thoughts can get him, but they can’t grab his tongue and come out through his mouth, at least not to any consequence or result. If he says the wrong thing here and now, the only ears picking up the sounds are his own. The bed’s empty when it’s just him, an infrequent enough occurrence that he really feels it. Does Masako feel it, when he and Alex are away on a road trip? Tatsuya twists his fingers around his necklace.

The last he’d heard from the Knicks was yesterday’s joke of an offer, but it’s not even funny enough to be a joke if they think that’s what he’s worth. If Alex—she knows he’s worth more than that; the thought’s not worth completing even as a mental exercise. It can’t go anywhere good. She’s trying and they won’t budge, and it doesn’t even feel good to know they’re going to miss him despite their talented young players and a hell of a head coach. But Tatsuya’s let himself get too attached and caught up in the idea of himself as a part of this team, as if that superseded everything. Basketball’s a business, as they say.

He can make himself leave; he can pretend he’s convinced by the rational argument about money and pride. If this were five years ago, he wouldn’t even have to pretend, just do it in a heartbeat and a blaze of spite, coating his body in salt and jumping into the fire (maybe this is why the union doesn’t try to get free agency for younger players, because everyone would just do stupid shit like that). But he can’t just rip up his roots and go; he’s not some kid on his own, with nothing but misplaced sentimentality holding him on this island. Alex and Masako wouldn’t try to stop him, but that wouldn’t make it not hurt all of them.

Asking Masako about the Nets had been an impulse, but the thought’s been in his mind since his exit interview and all its lack of promise, all the hemming from Davis and the way it had made Alex look nervous in a way that had made him want to reach over and rub her back and kick Davis out of his own office. This isn’t the easy way out; there is no easy way out. It’s easier to swallow as a concept than going to another time zone, but it’s full of unknowns that seem equally as fraught from this vantage point. The last time Masako had coached him, he’d been a kid; they’d been years and quantum perception leaps away from being together. And that would probably stop being weird at some point before the middle of the preseason (if it is weird at all), and maybe it’s just Tatsuya making up excuses (it’s not like it was ever strange with him and Alex). They’d be leaving Alex alone (but leaving Masako less alone); a shift like that might be more disruptive than if he went to fucking Portland.

(Talk about it; communicate, the better part of Tatsuya says. But it’s easy to speculate with no one around, easier to swallow his words and wait for the phone call that will steady the status quo.)

Tatsuya’s phone buzzes against his thigh; he reaches for it, measured and not as fast as he wants to. It’s his agent.

“Hi.”

“I know you said no Western Conference, but Houston’s put in an offer. I’ll email you the sheet, but it’s good, backloaded, six years. If you want a no-movement that’ll be a lot; I think you’d have to meet with them and show them you’re serious. They’ll want a workout before they formally extend anything, too.”

“Thanks,” says Tatsuya, trying not to let the prospect of six years in Texas bore a hole through his skull.

“I haven’t heard back from the Knicks, so they haven’t withdrawn, but I’ll tell them they’ve got competition.”

“Thanks,” Tatsuya says again, with a little more enthusiasm.

“Let me know if you want to talk with Houston’s people.”

“Sure.”

The email comes with no subject, just an attachment, a fine contract when you’re not considering how long the flights from Houston to New York are, how fast he can get home from La Guardia versus Newark, how completely not worth it this would be. The possibility seems unreal; he locks his phone and shoves it back in his pocket. SportsCenter is still on TV, and now they’re cutting to afternoon baseball and the ticker at the bottom is concerned with international soccer. Tatsuya tries to focus on that, pretends that he cares about the the politics of Italy choosing a backup goalie. But then it goes to the MLS, the score from FC Dallas first, and fuck. Tatsuya doesn’t want to go to Texas.

And then they cut to highlights from McGriff’s press conference after the break, Masako on stage next to McGriff and the GM, and Tatsuya thinks for a second that could be him next. He could be up there, and Masako might let him drop his arm around her shoulders (probably not, but at least in this fantasy). The Nets are a few pieces away; they’re saying it on television and for once the analysts are right. Tatsuya can imagine something like this as long as he wants, but the only offers he has are this one from the Rockets and, if that counts, the one from the Knicks. The Knicks could call him back now and offer him something real and this could all be a temporary fantasy, a shaking of the boat on the journey. His phone is silent and motionless, not worth investing himself in even just a fantasy.

Tatsuya switches the TV to the weather; the newscaster is raising his eyebrows and talking about the heat wave, in his suit in a room full of air conditioning. Tatsuya rolls his eyes. He’s not feeling the heat wave either, but he’s not embellishing it with details about severity to a skeptical audience; the hum of the air conditioner seems more sincere. The lock clicks on the front door.

Masako’s hair is sticking to her neck; her suit is sticking to her body; her face is slightly flushed. She wrinkles her nose, her I-need-a-shower face, but she passes by the couch close enough for Tatsuya to tug on her hand. She pauses; her palm is damp with sweat.

“Yes?”

“Come sit with me,” says Tatsuya.

“Shower first,” says Masako.

She’s already popped open the top two buttons of her white shirt; her skin is still a warm tan from their trip to LA a few weeks back, and God, that had been good, the beach and the water and the dry heat.

“I’ll shower with you,” says Tatsuya.

His gaze is steady on Masako’s face; he reaches up with his free hand to pop the third button on her shirt. Beads of sweat cling to her breasts, beyond the edge of her plain beige bra.

“Now?” says Masako.

Tatsuya doesn’t really need one, but he follows her anyway.

 

July 3

All of the major basketball blogs have picked up on how little the Knicks offered Tatsuya. Someone must have leaked, and Alex is dealing with that (not that there’s much to really deal with), but Masako’s got several emails from Rios, her mercurial GM—make a run at Himuro, are you crazy?; Holy shit, the Knicks lowballed him; Does he have some injury we don’t know about?; I’ll do it, can you call him after I talk to his agent?—and a peaceful breakfast alone, with Alex in the bedroom and Tatsuya out on a nervous run. Maybe this is collusion, but Masako had only made Rios a suggestion. The contract leak was lucky, but neither her doing nor entirely unexpected, and she’d known Tatsuya had wanted an offer before that. But is he seriously entertaining the possibility of coming to the Nets?

Masako’s wasted more time barking up other wrong trees than this could turn out to have, but it would hurt more if this was just a ploy. But if it’s a ploy with intent, a legitimate chance to sign him if the Knicks don’t up their offer or even if they do? Masako would expect no less of Tatsuya, and she doesn’t want to be disappointed. But she knows Tatsuya, impulsive and irrational and short-tempered and petty; she loves him for it and it might also mean he hasn’t really thought this through. She hasn’t coached him since he was in high school, and this might mean some weird regression for both of them, unavoidable but knocking their relationship into instability. Tatsuya’s balanced playing for Alex and dating her well enough (and Alex has held up her end), but that doesn’t mean it would work out just as well between Tatsuya and Masako.

This is a conversation Masako probably needs to have with Tatsuya, if and when an actual offer gets made.

But even hypothetically, goddamn. Masako’s thought about coaching Tatsuya in passing but it’s never been more than that, firmly stuffed into the back of her mental drawers like old tax returns, out of sight but always there. She can watch him for hours, aggressively defending and applying pressure, going low on guys half a foot taller than him and stealing the ball, faking out the entire crowd and enough of the opposition to drive the play forward and keep possession going. He’s a nightmare for even her best players on both ends to deal with, a puzzle she can’t ever solve for very long. A puzzle that makes her want to drop her jacket on a folding chair and get out there on the court in a suit and do it herself. And despite his arsenal of skills, already impressive when he was sixteen (not that Masako would have ever told him) he’s a coachable player. He knows the game, and he’ll let himself be molded around the game plan like pliant putty, not enough to lose the essence and shape of him but plenty to hold the team up and together.

And that's not even considering that she’d be with him all season long (barring injuries). She can handle being on her own (and work fills up a lot of that time anyway) but it’s always acute right after a road trip ends and she’s home and Alex and Tatsuya are home, a full bed to sleep in and the sounds of an occupied apartment, creaking floorboards and sticky refrigerator doors and English talk radio. A hotel room like the year she’d coached the all-star game and Alex had been roped into a charity game, that for once didn’t feel too big and empty and ugly.

In a vacuum, Masako wouldn’t wait for Rios to catch up and agree; she’d have Tatsuya signing a deal that didn’t exist. But in the decidedly non-airtight space that is reality, even with the likelihood that there’s going to be a contract and it’s going to be good, there’s Alex. Tatsuya doesn’t belong to her, even in a basketball sense, and they’re not really fighting over him, but she’s still trying to get him back. Until two days ago Masako had assumed that would happen, but the water looks murky now. She can see, somewhere up ahead, the streaming light. Tatsuya, with her the whole season; Tatsuya, the missing keystone to next year’s team; Tatsuya, in victory, in defeat. Fuck, Masako wants this bad.

Alex’s steps make the floorboards in the hallway creak and groan; they’re slow, and she drapes herself over Masako the second she gets into the kitchen. She rubs Masako’s arm, fingers trailing over the waistband of her shorts.

“Are you okay with this?” Masako says.

Alex sucks in a breath and then kisses her neck; her fingers are slack in the crook of Masako’s elbow. Masako twists to look at Alex’s face, the slight downward curve of her mouth, her eyes squinting in the light and without her glasses.

“Yeah. I’m not giving up without a fight, you know.”

“I know.”

“But you’re not stepping on my toes or anything. You know that.”

“I know,” says Masako. “But all of this is…sudden.”

Alex sighs. “Don’t I know it.”

Masako twists the rest of the way around on the barstool, firmly kissing Alex. Alex is still nervous, fussing, fidgeting, her fingers tapping on Masako’s team; her team has a longer way to go and a less enthusiastic boss; it’s early still but this summer isn’t much of a vacation with all of that hanging over their heads.

“I gotta go into the office,” Alex says. “Fuck, I really don’t want to.”

“It’s Saturday,” says Masako. “On a holiday weekend.”

“I know, fuck me, right?”

Alex leans her weight on Masako; Masako sighs. She’s kind of heavy, but there’s a part of her that likes doing this for Alex, holding her up when she’s being dramatic. (Masako wants to whine this much sometimes, when she’s back from a road trip and there are only three days before Alex and Tatsuya leave on theirs, when her own boss is being stupid, when she just fucking feels like it. But it feels a little more cathartic to just spoil Alex like this.)

“Chin up,” says Masako.

They’re still more or less in that position when Tatsuya comes back, his hair dripping with sweat and his cheeks flushed. He’s been gone an hour, longer than usual, and it’s obvious he hasn’t managed to run the restlessness out of himself. And what the hell, Masako lets him lean on her, too; he’s sweaty and grimy (she’d really rather not think about what shade of black the soles of his feet are) but she hasn’t taken a shower yet and his fingers feel nice combing through her hair. It’s not quite so nice when he steals some of her coffee, but she’s used to that by now.

Tatsuya detaches himself when Alex does, pouring himself a cup of coffee while she goes off to the bedroom to get dressed. He sits down on the other side of the kitchen table and opens up the real estate section of the paper. Masako sips the remnants of her coffee, scrolling through new emails. She taps her finger on the latest from Rios; she’s been CC’ed on an email to Tatsuya’s agent. It’s a letter of intent, as official as these things can get. Across from her, Tatsuya’s rubbing the rim of his coffee cup; he catches her gaze. His eyes drift to a spot above her head, and Masako turns her head.

It hasn’t been that long since the Knicks’ season ended, but damn. Masako always forgets just how good Alex looks in a suit, even still clearly half-awake as she is.

“I won’t be too long,” she says.

She grabs a banana from the table, places a sloppy kiss on the side of Masako’s forehead, and waves at both of them before heading for the door. The lock clicks behind her, and Tatsuya’s back to looking at Masako.

“My agent called,” says Tatsuya. “When I was out. She told me about the contract from you guys.”

Masako nods.

Tatsuya draws in a breath. “I want to take it.”

Masako stares for a second. That’s all it took? He’s that serious?

“I mean, my agent’s going to talk to the Knicks. And Houston, too, I guess, but…I wouldn’t mind playing for you again, Coach.”

Masako raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I want to. I want to play your system, and I want to play for you.”

He’s not dressing it up to appease her, and even if Masako has to poke him a little to get there it’s still candid and honest. It’s not an easy choice; even if it was borne of Tatsuya’s impulses it’s no longer just that, no longer clean and free of consequences, no best-of-both-worlds option rather than swallowing either of his other offers. Tatsuya reaches across the table to bump his knuckles against Masako’s.

 

July 4

Tatsuya pulls his thumb down the surface of his phone, his face placid, his mind intractable even to Alex. He’ll tell her if it’s important, if it’s anything relevant to his contract. They haven’t talked directly about it, but that speaks enough to where Tatsuya’s mind is. He wants to go to Brooklyn, and Alex can’t blame him (she couldn’t even if he were a more forgiving person; the ones to blame here are Davis and the ownership). Just because he’s going to do the right thing doesn’t mean it isn’t going to hurt a little bit.

It’s right for him, even without weighing the money factor. He can thrive when Alex is coaching him; it’s a point of pride that she can still bring out the best her first student has to offer on one of the biggest stages in the world. But Masako challenges Tatsuya in different ways than Alex does, in ways that play to his natural strengths and inclinations and against them at once, a balance Tatsuya has to strike more delicately. It’s not that he can’t focus and play tight defense right now, or even that he doesn’t bring that out every game. But Masako pushes him through doors Alex can’t; she’d done so much with Tatsuya when he was just a teenager that the hypotheticals make Alex excited (if anything about this situation can).

Alex leans back on the couch; her hair is falling from its messy bun and sticking to her neck, soaked with sweat that just won’t evaporate. The humidity drifts through the open window, slower than this week’s been going, as if it’s trying to stuff more moisture into the air than fits. She’s not wearing any clothes, and at least there’s no wet fabric rubbing against her skin, but the beads of sweat trickling down her arms, pooling under her breasts and behind her knees, aren’t particularly pleasant.

“Houston's upped their offer,” says Tatsuya.

The fan rotates around to blow straight at them, and then back toward the window. It probably wastes energy more than it circulates air, but it’s something.

“Oh?” says Masako, from Alex’s other side.

Her fourth finger slips against the glass of water balanced on her knee; it tilts and the ring of water is visible on her skin, tinted pink from the cold.

“No-movement clause,” says Tatsuya.

(Less attractive, then.)

“You okay, Alex?”

“I’m hot.”

(They all are, and maybe it’s a waste of breath to complain, but if she sits back up the sweat’s going to go down her forehead and into her eyes again.)

“I knew that,” says Tatsuya.

His voice is low; Alex cracks an eye open. She’d left her glasses on the nightstand and she can’t see his face all that well, especially from this angle. She flexes her palm; it’s too wet.

“Trying to get in my pants?”

“What pants?”

“The invisible ones I’m wearing.”

Alex can feel Masako bite back a laugh next to her; Alex nudges Masako's knee with hers. Tatsuya’s fingers skim across her thighs and a very welcome shiver runs down Alex’s back.

“I don’t feel anything,” says Tatsuya.

“We’re not having sex on the couch,” says Alex.

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” says Tatsuya.

“The hell you weren’t,” says Masako. “Get up before you get in too deep.”

Alex snorts and opens her eyes. Definitely unintentional; Masako’s face is flushed (Alex would give her the heat or being turned on, but it’s Masako; that’s not it).

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” says Alex, leaning over to kiss her.

Tatsuya runs his fingers up her stomach; Alex nearly jerks back. He’s so close, and his body heat is a little bit uncomfortable. But it’s not too much, and there’s a hell of a lot that will cancel it out.

*

They’re technically not allowed on the building roof, especially not with alcohol, but the views are too good to pass up. It’s not like their neighbors are going to complain to the landlord, or their presence on the stairs or the roof is anywhere near as disruptive as the sound of the fireworks or the people out on the streets. The heat hasn’t broken yet, but sitting in the shade on a blanket with a beer makes it seem a little less gross. Nevertheless, Masako hasn’t joined her and Tatsuya yet; they’re alone with the dropping midsummer sun and the cooler.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya.

He’s staring out of his sunglasses toward the water tower on the building across the street.

“Hey,” says Alex.

“I think I’m going to sign with the Nets,” says Tatsuya.

Alex nods, deep, slow, enough for him to catch out in the periphery of his good eye.

“I’m not doing it because it's more fair to her, or because I’m rejecting you, or, like—a competition.”

“I know,” says Alex.

“I know you know,” says Taiga, and he turns toward her, finally.

“But you needed to say it?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” says Alex.

She cracks open her can; it hisses like a skillet and she pushes down harder until it foams over her thumb.

“Of course,” says Tatsuya.

The heat is close to breaking; Alex has gotten good enough at feeling the air here to know it. She leans closer and kisses Tatsuya on the nose. He’s grinning when she pulls away, and she stays close enough for her voice to reach his ears at a low volume, despite the sounds of the street ten floors below them.

“However much you’re planning to shade the front office to the press, double it. Get my share in.”

“Will do.”

She kisses him again, properly this time.

The sun is setting when Masako comes up the stairs; the air is close enough to bearable.

“Get your man a contract yet?” says Alex.

“Soon,” says Masako. “Your agent said she’ll meet us tomorrow if you’re up for it.”

Tatsuya looks at Alex; Alex looks back. It’s out of her hands.

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya.

The fireworks start before the cover of dark has extended all the way across the sky, impatient people on the other side of the island and beyond already celebrating. Alex raises her beer can.

“Feeling patriotic?” says Tatsuya.

“Not particularly. But…”

“We’re all here together,” says Masako. “I’ll drink to that.”

Her eyes catch Alex’s over the tops of their cans. Her smile is soft and beautiful, and Alex wants to capture this moment with some kind of superpowered camera. But those kinds of wishes never work out; she throws herself into the moment and tilts her own can back toward her mouth.

 

July 5

It hits Tatsuya like a bricked layup plopping to the court. They’re on the 4 and it’s squealing on its tracks as it jerks through the tunnel, and he’s tapping his empty water bottle on his knee. He moves closer to Masako; the suit is too hot for the weather but not warm enough in the fucking ice cap that is the empty, air conditioned subway car. This is happening too fast, a thought grown into reality, mutated into a contract, a piece of his figure he’s about to sign away. IT’s what he wants, and he can’t imagine regretting it, but it’s startling. He’s still a little bit hesitant to imagine what it’ll be like too much, black jersey with white letters across his chest, Masako at the sideline telling him what to do, leaning on her sword. Like it’ll all fall through if he counts on it too much, that the GM will decide they really don’t want to do this. It’s stupidly superstitious. He trusts Masako; he has no reason not to trust the future.

She pats his knee. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Tatsuya.”

He sighs; no matter what he does she reads him like a road sign. Masako flips her hand over, and Tatsuya places his on top. Her palm is cool, dry, firm, like the first time he’d held it. Then, it had all ben tentative, too; and it’s worked out pretty well since then, hasn’t it?

The train begins to brake as they pull into the station, and Masako takes her hand back. A few giggling college-age white girls get on. Two more stops, and they’ll be at Barclays. Tatsuya crushes the water bottle in his hands; it makes a weak sort of sound.

They go around to the side entrance; Masako flashes her badge at the security desk but Tatsuya has to sign in. It’s oddly formal, like the job interviews he’d been on for his college internships, periods of time that largely sit in his memory unchecked. Then again, there’s so much about pro sports that’s oddly formal, the tailored suits and contracts that go longer than a PhD thesis when it all boils down to playing a game that’s literally its own reward for millions of dollars a season. The guard prints Tatsuya a sticker and he slaps it under the pocket of his suit; Masako’s waiting for him on the other side.

“Ready?”

“Of course.”

There’s nothing left to negotiate, really; Tatsuya only has to look through the contract and double-check, trust his agent that everything else is alright. He’d had a physical at the end of June for the Knicks, and the Nets have accepted those results. The money is as promised; it’s five years with an opt-out after three, incentives for awards and all-star appearances that Tatsuya would be going for anyway. Tatsuya signs and initials all the dotted lines.

“Wonderful,” says the GM, from across the table. “Welcome to the Nets family.”

“Thanks,” says Tatsuya. “I’m happy to be here.”

Both Rios and Masako shake his hand; Tatsuya holds onto Masako’s a little bit longer. It’s official now; he’s a Net. He can dream all he wants to about Masako with her sleeves rolled up, pointing aggressively at a clipboard, Masako telling him to get in the game, Masako holding up the O’Brien trophy with him. (Maybe not that last one yet; Tatsuya can’t pretend he’s totally above superstition.)

There’s a little more to go over, the press release and the conference tomorrow, information about practice facilities and schedules and various people within the organization, when he’ll meet the other coaches and players formally. But still, the weight of something going wrong is rising from Tatsuya’s chest and dissipating into the air, as if it’s been blasted with a dehumidifier.

 

July 6

If Tatsuya leans in a little too close to Masako, who’s going to call him on it? Masako isn’t; that’s for damn sure. His hand is tight around her waist and she can feel his breath, warm against her cheek in the over-exuberant air conditioning of the conference room. Their chairs are a foot and a half apart at the table, and Masako can certainly live for a bit without physical contact, but she wants to reach out and clasp his hand, kiss his cheek because he looks so damn happy. Masako’s never been big on PDA, and she wouldn’t be even if it was feasible with Alex and Tatsuya. But now would be the time she’d make an exception.

Tatsuya’s speech is short, about watching the Nets from across the river, wanting to enjoy the rivalry from this side, a town he loves where he can stay with his family, and a good organization with a bright future. All of the right things, but things he believes for the most part, even though this is one of the easiest things to bullshit. (He does talk about the coaching staff longer than necessary, but the way he looks at her Masako supposes it can be excused.)

Masako doesn’t have to answer too many questions herself, mostly things she’s expected to deflect like how she’s going to devise her lineup and what the big picture goals are for next season. And they do give her the opportunity to reiterate that she’s happy Tatsuya’s joining the team (it’s a two way street).

You’re cute, Alex texts via the group channel that they only get to read on the cab ride back.

“You are,” says Tatsuya, glancing up with an easy smile.

“I think she was talking about you,” says Masako.

“I know,” says Tatsuya. “But you, too.”

And fuck, that smile is cute; Masako just can’t muster up any annoyance at it.

Alex is dozing on the couch when they get in; she tries to sit up but her hair’s caught under her elbow. Tatsuya squeezes Masako’s hand, and Masako squeezes back; with her other hand she reaches out to smooth over Alex’s hair. It’ll be awfully easy to get used to this, coming home to Alex with Tatsuya at her side, the feeling of accomplishment (especially after something more meaningful than a press conference has been accomplished). But Masako’s not going to be preoccupied with the future when she can enjoy the present, so she lets Alex pull her in.

  
  



End file.
